Page 23 of Some Like It Fox

I tuck my legs into my chest, wrapping my arms around my knees. I’m home. Again. Living with family because I’m basically homeless.

I turned twenty-seven last month. I’m on the downward slide into thirty, and what do I have to show for it? A broken-down bus, zero accomplishments, and nothing more than a shoebox full of old tickets to concerts and festivals, gathering dust in a cupboard.

Five years ago—hell, one year ago, my life was perfect. I was never bored. Traveling, living my life on the go, always meeting new people. Exploring new places was the epitome of living life to the fullest.

Now... I don’t know what it is. The endless parties have gone stale. I’ve been chasing after the high I used to get from being in a crowd, surrounded by people, and now the same activities leave me empty.

It isn’t helping that all attempts to locate Mom have led to dead ends. Maybe I should give up. Get a real job. Join a cult. Like a normal person.

A Jeep with the camp logo on the side slows to a stop against the curb about ten feet away.

I stand up and grab my bag.

The door opens and a broad figure jumps down.

Shit on a shingle.

Atticus.

We’re ten yards away from each other, and the intensity between us reaches out and snags me by the waist.

What happened to Jake?

He comes to a halt a foot in front of me. His scent drifts to me on the slight breeze, soap and aftershave.

“Hi,” I say. The best conversational gambit at my disposal.

“Hey. Can I help you with your bag? Did you have anything else you need?” He glances behind me to where the tow truck driver left the bus parked outside the bay doors.

“No. It’s fine. This is all I’ve got. I’m used to traveling light. Thanks, though.”

He ducks his head in acknowledgment, shoving his hands into his pockets.

I take a second to size him up. He looks good. Really good. The night air is warm enough for a T-shirt and jeans, exposing his broad shoulders and muscle-laden forearms.

Why did I run away from him again?

Stop staring. Eyes up.I jerk my gaze to his face.

His lips press together, suppressing a smile.

Heat floods me from head to toe, half embarrassment, half the crackling fire in my belly that leaps toward Atticus whenever he’s within touching distance. I clear my throat. “Where’s Jake?”

The smile he’s been holding back breaks free. “He sent me as his errand boy.”

The grin takes his features from handsome and tosses them into downright striking.

My mouth goes dry. I clear my throat to speak. “Why am I not surprised? Although I doubt those are the words he used.”

“You would be correct. He prefers to call me his favorite little beyotch.” He chuckles and turns away, holding the passenger door open for me.

I chuck my bag in the back and then we settle in our seats, awkwardness sitting between us like a third passenger. Twitchy, I reach over to fiddle with the radio, putting on the local oldies station.

“While My Guitar Gently Weeps” takes over the unease filling the car, eating through the silence, and I settle back in the seat.

Am I anxious because I’m sitting inches away from a man more tempting than sin, or because I’m finally heading home for the first time in six months?

My stomach churns with guilt.

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